


snug as a gun

by InsideMyBrain



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Drinking, Gen, Inspired by Poetry, Minecraft, Potatoes, Souperism, Vignette, dont come at me its the middle of midterms I dont have a lot of time to research, this probably has a lot of historical inaccuracies in it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21716977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsideMyBrain/pseuds/InsideMyBrain
Summary: "The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slapOf soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edgeThrough living roots awaken in my head.But I’ve no spade to follow men like them."- Seamus Heaney,Digging
Relationships: Daniel | RTGameCrowd & Kevin O'Reilly, Daniel | RTGameCrowd & Kevin O'Reilly & Sean McLoughlin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 40





	snug as a gun

**Author's Note:**

> After watching that legendary stream with the three of them, I knew I had to write something. Somehow I came up with this. 
> 
> And yep, I'm posting twice in one day bc apparently procrastination is the best way to get writing inspiration.
> 
> Obligatory RPF disclaimer: this is not meant to be a comment on anything that's going on IRL with these lads, I'm just being creative and having fun. Please do not send this to them or anyone affiliated with them.

_Squelch, slap_. Daniel’s footsteps in the mud echo the sounds of the diggers he passes on his way to the pub. He nods at them as he passes, and they touch their caps wearily back. He imagines they all have families they need to take care of, working hard for what little bread is available. He flattens his mouth into a thin line.

The fine mist of a rain turns into a sprinkling just as he reaches the doorway of the pub. He ducks inside, glancing around for the usual lads as he wipes his feet on the rug.

“Evening, O’Reilly,” Daniel greets, sitting at a table with his drinking friend.

Kevin O’Reilly glances up at him as he sits. “Condren, good to see you, buddy.” He’s holding a beer already, the white foam clinging to the sides of the glass like mould. Daniel shifts his gaze away in favour of lighting his pipe.

“Nasty bit o’ weather we’re having, eh?” He asks, taking a puff.

Kevin shrugs. “We always are.”

“That’s fair enough.” Daniel orders a pint for himself and leans back in his chair, smoking quietly.

Kevin speaks again, his voice hard and spiteful. “You hear about this soup shite?”

Daniel raises an eyebrow. “No, what is it?” He receives his pint and thanks the pub owner, then lifts the glass to his lips. It goes down smooth.

Kevin drinks his own, then gestures for a top-up. “They’re bribing us to convert with food now. My neighbours’ kiddies were offered soup if they went to a Protestant school.”

Daniel takes a long drag on his pipe, then breathes out slowly. “Revolting.”

“What’s revolting?” Comes another voice, sliding into the seat beside Daniel.

“Hey, lad,” Daniel greets Seán McLoughlin, a mutual friend of his and Kevin’s. “We’ve got to be wary about soup now.”

“What?” Seán laughs animatedly, and Daniel watches him as Kevin repeats himself to Seán. He wonders at how anyone can have that much energy on an empty stomach.

“I mean, this just proves it,” Kevin is saying. “This is a well-hidden attempt to eliminate us.”

“The Almighty, indeed, sent the potato blight, but the English created the famine,” Seán quotes, nodding.

“Exactly,” Daniel agrees quietly. He thinks again of those farmers, stooping to collect the harvest, none of which that passes through their hands ever being raised to their lips. It makes him want to pick up a spade himself, swing it at any English thing within reach.

The three continue to sip their beers, raising and lowering their glasses in rhythm. _Glug, clunk_ , interspersed with conversation or laughter, digging. They drain their pints for the good stuff at the bottom, the glass handles resting in their hands as snug as a gun. So it goes.

In another universe, they each have enough food to last them a month within arm’s reach. They share a laugh at their country’s expense, floating through a cubist world, the squelch and slap replaced with clicks and knocks, hyper-aware of each movement that nudges a hand across the clock-face of sheer luck. Luck of the Irish, they suppose.

Daniel has no reason to believe in luck. And, glancing around at his companions, he knows they don’t either.


End file.
